Wrong Number
By Biswas
As he ambles into a bus by the roadside at Gaushala, Aman notices a plump lady in cream salvars seated beside the door. He heads for an empty seat at the back after a brief glance at the woman.
"70 Maoists gunned down by the army!" a paperboy climbs abroad, shouting at the top of his voice. Aman peers at the reams of paper clasped in the boyâ??s dirty hands. The boy, in turn, looks at him expectantly, but Aman turns his eyes away.
As the bus sets into motion, he snaffles out a dog-eared, musty tome form his bag. He fingers it open, conveniently removes the bookmarker, and with a slight grimace, shoves the plastic marker into the latter pages. Through the narrow window slit, a zephyr swishes through his jet-black hair.
Presently, a hardy, middle-aged man with a well-manicured moustache takes the seat by him. The stranger is clad in spic white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his arms; gray pants, immaculately buckled up at the waist; in leather shoes, black and shining; a Citizen quartz of the same hue on his left-wrist: Amanâ??s eyes frequently shuttle between the straw coloured pages and the stranger. In time, the book lays unattended on his lap, his attention completely taken up by the stout man sitting by him.
Eventually, he bangs the book shut and turns his head towards the window. The fast receding rows of houses, derelict shops and dingy garages by the wayside divert his attention. The stranger has now engrossed himself in a popular Nepali tabloid.
When the bus reaches Koteswor, the man gets off, and nonchalantly crosses the road, not even bothering to check the traffic on either side. Aman gazes out of the window at the departing figure, until the man mingles in the crowd.
A sudden thrust brings his senses back.
As he reaches into his bag again, his eyes fall upon the scrawls on the white cover draping the seat immediately in front. The doodles are indecipherable for the most part, but on a closer look, Aman is able to make out a phone number and an e-mail address.
It is another 20 minutes before the bus reaches Lagankhel, its final stop. He hands his fare and alights. After a short walk, Aman enters a three-story cemented building, the last in the cul-de-sac. During the holidays, his office has had a fresh coat of paint. He sees that the fences are higher, and the main gate is now blacker and bigger. Keenly eyeing the developments around, he disappears into the complex.
After five hours, instead of the usual seven, he remerges. Aman scurries towards the station, and is soon onboard a bus, on his way back home. Nothing to divert his attention this time, he does away with another chapter en route, before hopping out at Gaushala.
Though the evening dusk is afar, he treads ahead, with his loping strides, homebound.
The front door is locked. The computer in his room, still onâ??the screensaver showing colourful underwater fish. But the keys are next door, with dear old aunt Rose whoâ??s always eager to lend a neighbourly hand. Sitting on the porch, he runs his fingers over the pages of the half-read book for a while and then puts it aside.
The garden up front is in full bloom. He smells the flowers â??purple, white, yellow, pink, crimson, and peacock blueâ??on each plant by turn. He does not know the names of most of these, Aman is suddenly aware! He pauses.
Though the main gate, he slinks out of the compound and greets his mother, who is rounding the last bend that leads upto the house.
"What a coincidence, mummy! We are home at the same time."
She unlocks the door with the keys from aunt Rose. Aman scampers up the steps to his room on the third floor, following a short mother-son tête-à -tête on the porch. Before long, he is pattering away at the keyboard with his modest typing speed. When the rattle ends, he palms his eyes, and heaves a sigh: â??Your message has been sent,â?? the screen reads.
He shuts the computer down and descends to the kitchen on the second floor, where a cup of tea and some biscuits await. Quickly doing away with the snack, he crosses over to the living room. Aman nestles himself in the settee by the phone.
He dials. The phone on the other side blares outâ??tring! trring!trrring! Once, twice, thrice...
"Hello!"
"Aman! Thatâ??s you, isnâ??t it? Is this a joke? Come down at once! Rose auntie is here."
"Ya, mom," he slams the receiver back.
Aman makes his way down with leaden steps, all the while shaking his head: How gruesome did aunt Rose look yesterday!
(Originally published in The Kathmandu Post on May 29,2005)
